An Online Cooperative

I just say things, you know? I don't mean anything by them. Don't take them personally. If I really thought you were an asshole, I'd say it to you--maybe over the phone or in your office cubicle while your boss is talking to you--just to get it over with and then use your overly emotional response as the catalyst for my next blog entry, you asshole.

Please feel free to use the above statements in times where your blinding fog of rage chokes your compositional abilities. Sharing is caring.

Too Moody to Write

Biked out to prime location tonight to sandwich the moon in an alley. Since I'm moody, entertain yourselves here: www.abouttosnap.blogspot.com.

JIF or Skippy?

Please post your response using the comments feature--do so annonymously if you must. If you are allergic to peanuts and cannot participate in this survey, know that there was no ploy to exclude you in our peanut-butter-question-asking fun. But please, don't post a comment about your inability to take our fun survey. It would take a long time for our scientists to weed out the useless input.

Chipotle, Foiled Again!

I say Chipotle and you say what? Fast food joint that foil-wraps burritos insipid as the paper bags they are tossed in? Me too. I hate Chipotle (that is, the fast food joint), and I'm frustrated--perhaps by my own failure to find joy when grazing on one of these death-like burritos. Mixing lettuce and sour cream in carnitas is like trying to make tuna salad with pork chunks. Sure, omit the lettuce and sour cream. Opt for different burrito arrangements, but is this lunch or is this arts and freakin' crafts? Que feo!

A Couple of Bitches Talking in Front of the House

Today my neighbor (we'll protect his identity by calling him Chipotle--it's a popular one these days) and I stood in the parking lot, our arms crossed, catching up on things. Besides the name I just gave my neighbor, there's nothing exciting about this entry. Why are you still reading? Oh, it must have been the promising title. I am one of the two bitches mentioned in it. Something to take from this: A couple means two. Please resort to a few or some or several when you are referring to more than a friggin' couple. So yes, I am one of the two bitches, aren't I?

Maybe I Want to Sing with Emmylou Too

Me and a backpack and a ticket in my hand
to see Elvis Costello tonight,
as though he were an old friend I were flying to visit. On second
thought I'll e-mail him instead, send him
into a tizzy over a poem I wrote on the bus last night. Confessional,
completely, because I can't really sing.

Frauds!

Some third party from across the country scoffed at my enthusiasm for working at a rare books library, asking if I knew the old books were really just reprints of books published a long time ago. I did some amateur investigating and was disheartened to find that there was possible copyright infringement to be reported! I couldn't find the pages where the copyright dates are usually printed--no mention of the publishing houses even! Pre-Gutenberg my arse! Someone just wanted to avoid being taken to court! Man, had it not been for this genius from many miles away, I would have felt so foolish, showing such stewardship for mere reprints! I may not have a degree in Library Science, but I damn sure have a degree in Common Sense!

The Blog of my Life

Bloggers like to reveal their geographic residencies, perhaps to attract readers curious about the lifestyles of certain places. I should reveal, at the onset of this blog, I'd hoped to offer, especially to my friends in CA, some insight into my life in the Twin Cities. The idea was dismissed as soon as I realized how much more fulfilling it was to give two-minute tours of my inner geography--a place that embraces minorities, grows only organic vegetables with a white guy playing bongos nearby, and boasts a population count of an unfettered one. I suppose, though, I should not hide behind crass metaphors and admit that I blog about myself.

I ask earnestly, though, is that so bad? I thank you, beloved readers, for visiting this small town of a blog, but are you ashamed to admit the joy you get from this heavily self-centered blog? Am I a dirty little secret?

I'd always wanted to be a dirty secret, but never, NEVER when it came to the seriousness of blogging.

The Necessary Sylvia

Attention friends of past and present times: Please seek updates about me on this here blog, for I have forgotten how to communicate with you on an interpersonal level. It was by a process of elimination that I decided to adopt a single, theatrically candid voice--that is, I have eliminated the unnecessary voices of Sylvia to present to you the Necessary Sylvia.

The author would like to interject at this point, cautioning the Necessary Sylvia that an egotist with nothing to offer is quickly dismissed. The author would also like to stress to the Necessary Sylvia that the author wants very much to continue living and humbly suggests that the Necessary Sylvia works on keeping all the friends the Necessary Sylvia has already acquired.

That whole thing was totally unnecessary, and I've completely wasted your time. Can we still be friends forever?

Children and the Books I'll Sell 'Em

I think all children should read books--my books. I don't claim to have any on the market now, but when I do and if you are currently nice to me, I might remember your face and let you and your kid cut to the front of the autograph line at the Mall of America's Barnes and Noble.

I advocate literacy. If your kid can't read by age 4, please get him checked out. I don't claim to be an expert on child development, but c'mon, whether your kid may or may not be able to read doesn't change the fact that I've got to peddle books for a freakin' living.

Sure, there might be one or two percent of these junior consumers (yes, even children can be consumers too!) who get violent nightmares as a result of my fun-filled stories, but rejoice, for these are the future insightful adults of America!

It Went Thataway

At the adjacent table are three men in their sixties who turn and ask me what I’m studying. I look over from my two-hundred-dollar fortress of books and answer, “I’m wasting my time in journalism.” Their reaction is quick—a sober concoction of encouragement and interest.

“That’s a good subject. Do you want to be a news anchor?”

“News anchor? That’s ambitious,” I reply.

My ambition is an absent thing, unseen since my college years. If I saw it now, I wouldn’t recognize it, though it would probably resemble my present life: a fat and tired sloth, a sloth that eats, shoots and leaves.

Mediocrity: Nothing to Write Home About

I wrote home about my accomplishments, and no one commented, so I wrote about my mediocre life, and everyone wanted to have coffee with me. A month later, I started to notice how popular scrapbook making (or as the lazies call it, scrapbooking, as if lawn mowing could be called lawn mowering) had become, so I started my own Mediocre Moments scrapbook. I was relieved that it was just a scrapbook, because scraps were all I was willing to offer. A former professor was trying to be encouraging when I snorted, "Did you think I'd write a novel? C'mon! Like I have that kind of aptitude!" She grimaced--it was the face that encapsulated that day's activities, so there it is today, as I've precisely doodled it, on page 31. I keep up with this scrapbook because it's easy to do. I don't have to "dig deep" for material. One day, I glued a leaf on it. It wasn't an extraordinary leaf, as you might have guessed. It was just something I yanked off the shrub in front of the house.

Stream of Consciousness on Holiday

As I was thinking, one thought cutting off another without complaint, a man came over and upzipped his pants. I said to him, "No, sir, you want the Mississippi River down the street." I closed my eyes on him and paddled along. I'm so behind in my blog entries. Everyone else has been keeping up. Life is with them. I could be dead and not know it. I watch too much t.v.--that dead idea (cheap pun) has been done in every genre. I knew a guy who pronounced genre as though it was the nickname for generic: gener. No brand could make a better version of Lucky Charms cereal. I never finish all my milk before the expiration date. I guess I support the dairy industry, but I will not wear political buttons for them. Got milk? Got spoiled milk. "Sir, why don't you try the bush, then?" I am trying to drift with my thoughts again, but today's stream is flowing rather slowly, shallowly.